Rags
by RestlessNightsandTiredDays
Summary: The Courier left who he was behind and moved on after Hoover Dam. He wrapped himself in rags and started over, a new place and a new man. Eventually the man in rags saves a girl in trouble... this is that story.


**A/N: I don't own Fallout!**

**So this story is loosely based on Fallout: in my mind this is my Courier after the game, far away from the Mojave and its dealings. There will be the Brotherhood, raiders, super mutants, and the like, but no specific characters from the game otherwise. Anyway, enjoy!**

"Nope…nope…broken…nope… oh, ok, what do we have here?"

The soft voice that intermittently breaks the desert's twilight silence is muffled, the lone man's face covered in rags. Bands of rags, once white but now colored by the desert, cover the man's face and neck, and all that is visible through the fabric are his eyes behind a pair of goggles: one a light blue and one a deep green. They are narrowed in concentration as gloved hands brush the substantial layer dust off a small device: an old radio, cracked in places but still whole. Delicate fingers deftly flip the device over, thumbs brushing dirt and grime from the back cover plate. Seeing the screws holding the panel in place, a small screwdriver appears from inside the sleeve of the man's cloak; the screws are removed, lined up carefully off to the side, and then the tool disappears just as swiftly back into his sleeve.

Popping the plate off and placing it just as carefully next to the radio's screws, the interior of the radio was open to the man. The goggles are pulled down to hang around his neck, heterochromic eyes darting back and forth, following the circuit pathways, checking capacitors and wires. Some parts are old and decayed, destroyed over the decades of beatings by the harsh desert weather; most is still good, surprisingly good, and as more tools seem to just appear in the man's hands, his fingers dip into the machine and get to work. The power source… unusually good lengths of wire… all are removed and placed meticulously off to the side. Everything of use in the old radio is soon lined up in the last rays of the sun, and the man removes his hands from his mechanical surgery.

Leaning to the side, the man grasps the worn leather straps of his nearby bag and pulls it towards him. The salvaged pieces disappear into the many pockets of the bag, and soon all that is left on the makeshift workstation is the gutted corpse of the radio. Flipping the salvage bag's flap closed, the man looks to the west, at the last sliver of the sun as it dips below the horizon. A breeze kicks up dust, reminding the man to pull the goggles back up to his eyes.

The man stands and shoulders his bag of collected goods. Giving the rest of the wreckage a courtesy glance and seeing nothing of immediate value, the man makes a mental note to finish up this lot at first light tomorrow. His eyes drift from the surrounding remains of the home to the cracked blacktop of the road in front of it, and travel north. Five more former homes in this forgotten neighborhood, one more day of work, and he'll have gotten everything worth digging up.

The chill of the desert night is already piercing his clothing, and the man pulls his duster closer around his chest. Brown to match the rags and dirt around him, the man's duster is well-worn and not lacking in bullet holes. A hand reaches up to his head, pulling off the fedora that was sitting atop his head. Giving it a generous shake and a few light knocks with his other hand, a cloud of dust falls off the hat. With his entire head exposed, one could see that the rags covering his face wrap around his head, leaving only a patch of jet black hair at the top exposed. With a sigh, the fedora is placed back on his head and he starts to make his way down the side of the rubble, stepping carefully to avoid slipping.

Standing atop the mound of rubble where a home once stood, the man looks like a demon from one of the Old World's stories. The light breeze blows his duster out behind him, turning blacker in the darkening night, his features obscured by the rags on his face, and the ominous shadow of a rifle strapped to his back… horror movies and nightmares were made of this figure. Perhaps, many years ago, the two children that used to live in the wreckage of the home he now stood on, the children that slept in the beds he was now stepping on, would have been scared of him. If he had walked down the road he now travelled south on all those years ago, looking as threatening as he does now, doors would have been locked and authorities called. He was a demon, the stuff of terror.

But things have changed, the world has changed, and demons now look very different. And it was a demon's gunshot that rang out, shattering the illusion of serenity the desert night gives.

To the casual observer, the rag-covered man walking down the street seems to vanish the second the shot rings out. In reality… he did.

Seeming to react as though he were waiting for the sound, as though he was prepared for this drop of violence in the calm twilight, he moves with inhuman speed and without making a sound. The man sprints off the road and heads in the direction the sound of gunfire came from; his mental map of the neighborhood coming up. Calculations born of years of violence and bloodshed tell him the gunshot probably came from a home he salvaged two days ago, one of the handful still standing in this block.

Jumping completely over the wreck of a car and landing without a sound, the man cuts between two houses in the blink of an eye and crosses through the backyard. Skeletons of children's play sets and grills are ignored as the man jumps over a picket fence between what were once properties, his duster billowing out around him. Glints of steel are briefly visible on the man's hips in the moonlight, until he lands and continues to run. His feet skid around the corner of the house in question, boots quickly gripping the soft soil. He drops into a crouched position and passes under the window quickly, coming to a stop at the open door of the house.

A knife has materialized in his hand, wickedly sharp and a dull black color to prevent reflection of light. Pressed tightly against the building, he waits for the blood pounding in his ears to subside to listen. Hearing voices and the sounds of movement upstairs, but nothing immediately inside, the man turns the corner. His eyes shoot from side to side, quickly assessing the room.

Everything is as it was two days ago… typical entry foyer: bookcase along the far wall, which also has the stairs to the second floor. Two chairs, table in between. Through there to the kitchen, hole in the wall, bathroom ov—no, wait. Blood, and it's fresh. The books that were on the shelf are all over the floor too. Papers are kicked up. Drops of blood are leading up the stairs, not a fatal shot.

Quickly moving across the room, the man mounts the stairs and ascends as he listens to the sounds upstairs. Determining the room the sounds are coming from, the man in rags removes the bag from his shoulder and places it quietly on the floor, his rifle laying on top of it. Finally his hat comes off and rests on the end of the rifle scope, and the man heads down the hall to the closed door. By the time he reaches the room the sounds are coming from and prepares to breech the door, his mind is flying with information:

There's a woman, sounds distressed, victim. Two enemies. Speaking to woman, laughing. No. Three. Third is silent, standing by door. Tapping foot, not good, gives away position. Woman in the corner, speaking now. Begging? Maybe. No, too defiant. Doesn't matter. Three, two, one…

* * *

She had run into the building not thinking, running just out of fear; trying to get away from the raiders, the men that had killed the rest of the caravan. Her breath is quick and deep, her heart pounding in her chest. Her legs burn from running, but she can't stop, can't slow down. She has to get away. She gambled that they had lost sight of her, and she could duck into the house and hide until they lost interest in her; they follow her though, cornering her in the house.

She can hear them laughing as they chase her.

At the foot of the stairs, the first raider comes into the house, firing at her as soon as he sees her. In her terror she hears the gunshot, but doesn't feel the pain as the bullet rips through her arm. Taking the stairs two at a time, she stumbles and falls at the top step, instinctively throwing out her arms to break her fall. Crying out in pain as a sharp jet of agony rips through her injured arm, she collapses on the floor. Ruined, dirty carpet does little to break her fall, and she scrambles back up as quickly as possible, pushing up through the pain of her gunshot arm, to keep running. Just keep running.

Almost as soon as she is upright again, she feels a powerful, rough hand close around her good arm; the raider has made it, the bastard is right behind her. Twisting free, she breaks the grip and runs further down the hall, eyes on the broken and grimy window at the end of the hall. Jumping out is her best option at this point, hopefully she'll either land safely so she can keep running, or kill herself quickly. No thinking now, just running. Running.

What seems like miles, but what is really a couple of steps, short of the window, her head jerks back as the hand from before closes around her hair. She stumbles and nearly falls, kept up only by her hair. Another hand roughly grabs her arm, this time right over the bullet wound, and throws her into a side room.

She sees little of the room— a bed and a dresser— before she is once again face-down in moldy carpet. Flipping over, the girl uses her feet to kick herself away, away, as far away as possible. The raider enters the room and bends over, grasping one of her flailing ankles; pulling her towards him with a wicked grin on his face.

With a yell, the girl launches her free foot at his smiling face; despite her fear taking a small amount of satisfaction at the crunch. The raider gives an angry yell of pain and releases her, hands going to his now freely-bleeding face.

Hitting the wall, she looks around frantically for something, anything to defend herself with. As the remaining two raiders—another male and a female— turn the corner and enter the bedroom, the best she can find is a wooden rod, fallen off the bed frame.

Swinging it wildly as the other man approaches her, he easily catches the wood in his hand, ripping it from her grasp and throwing it to the side. He grabs her wrist, his face stoic and unemotional. Her other hand, the injured one, closes into a fist and goes for his jaw; the man catches it as well and holds both her arms as he kneels down to hold her legs still.

Her heart pounding faster than it ever has before, fear stronger than she's ever felt in her entire life, the defenseless woman glares at the man above her, and spits in his face.

The man doesn't move for a moment, still staring at his captive with the same blank face as she struggles in vain against him, then releases her injured hand and delivers a swift and brutal punch to the side of her face. The girl falls to the side under the blow as the raider releases her and steps back, her vision flashing white as she falls, face hitting that damn carpet once again. The warm, wet sensation on the side of her head telling her he managed to break skin.

Taking a few breaths and collecting herself from the jarring blow, the girl slowly raises herself back up to a sitting position when she hears the man take a few steps back. The stoic man now has a slight grin on his face, and slowly wipes the spit from his cheek. The last raider, the female, looks just as uncaring about the girl's predicament as the men, closing the door behind her and blocking her only escape route by leaning against the wall, her shotgun cradled casually in her arms.

The man with the bleeding face is now on his knees, cursing and shooting death glares at the girl on the floor as he holds the side of his jaw.

"Shit, fuck, shit, dammit! The fuckin' cunt hit me! She fuckin' knocked my teeth out! Fuck, you're dead, bitch! You hear me!? Dead!"

He stands and draws a pistol from his back, advancing on the girl and bringing it up to aim at her head. The stoic man stops him, grabbing the gun and holding it down. The bleeding man glares at him, sneering as blood pours down his chin.

"What the f—"

"Shut up, Vinnie. You're not killing her." The stoic man said, looking over at the girl. "We can have some… fun with her first, then you can kill her."

Breathing hard from anger, Vinnie stows his pistol after a moment's hesitation; that wicked grin seeps back onto his face, even more terrifying now with the blood and missing teeth.

"Yeah, some fun. We'll have some fuckin' fun, won't we, you bitch?" He says with a laugh, glancing over at the female raider who smiles back at him.

"She's got some fight in her, I'll give her that. This could be fun… but why don't you just cooperate with us for now, that way we can all be having fun. Doesn't that sound better? Having some fun?" The stoic man says lightly, his tone a dark contrast to his gleaming sadistic eyes.

The girl on the floor continues to glare at the man, and feels the fear slipping from her mind, it's pain and panic being replaced with something hard, something powerful. Her limbs stop trembling, and her breath slowly evens out, heart rate dropping a bit. Setting her jaw and sitting up straight, her eyes lock the mad eyes of the stoic man and is rewarded with a brief flicker of… confusion? Surprise?

"Fuck you," the girl says, the steadiness in her voice surprising even her.

Vinnie gives a loud laugh, blood and spittle flying from his mouth as he cracks his knuckles. The stoic man's mouth turns up slightly. From the corner of her eyes, the girl thinks she sees movement behind the shotgun woman, but her eyes remain locked on the stoic man's.

"Fight, indeed. You're a rare one." The stoic man says, removing his pistol and some grenades from his belt and handing them to Vinnie. "I don't think I'll give you a chance to get another weapon, though. So sorry."

The stoic man's hands go down to his belt and begin to undo it, advancing on the girl. Her hands ball into fists, preparing to hit whatever she can. There's no more pain from her arm, no more fear, no more anything. Her mind is clear, and her only goal is to do as much damage to these monsters as humanly possible. Vinnie's face looks like he was just told Christmas was canceled—if he even knew what it was—as the stoic man undid his belt.

"C'mon man, she fucked up mah face. I should get fir—"

Vinnie's eloquent argument is cut off as his head turned sharply and too far to the right, a crack ringing out through the room. Before Vinnie's body could even hit the floor, the stoic man spins around, hands flying up into a defensive position and eyes wide as he looked for the attacker. The girl looks too, unable to see anyone in the darkness, the last rays of sunlight only providing a little light.

"Amy! What th—"

The stoic man is cut off as a figure covered in rags and a duster springs from the shadows, a knife in each hand. Its head ducks under the stoic man's defenses, knives dipping with it and then aiming upwards. The stoic man is just registering that he's being attacked when the knives bury themselves under his jawbone; one on each side pointing up into his brain. The attacker's momentum throws them both back into the wall, the stoic man's back slamming into the wall as his arms fall to his sides. His eyes now filled with confusion, fear, and pain, the stoic man's hand grasp weakly at his attackers coat as he lets out a wet gasp, spitting up blood. The man in rags twists the knives down and out, completely slicing the stoic man's neck open. Without the knives holding him up, the stoic man slides down to the ground, eyes unfocused and fearful; his attempted last words come out as more blood, the front of his clothing now a deep red.

The man in rags backs away from the stoic man, whose eyes are now empty and body completely still. He wipes the dark knives on the remains of the mattress next to him, sliding the cleaned blades into his duster. Turning around, the man in rags stares at the girl on the ground without saying a word; for a full minute, everything is still. The room is still and silent, the last rays of the sun illuminating the body of the stoic man and the man in rags. There is blood on his face— or at least on the rags covering his face— from the stoic man, as well as on his duster. The remaining light reflects off his goggles, making his eyes impossible to see; the only feature the girl can see is the black hair sticking out the uncovered top of his head.

Finally, the man in rags steps forward and extends a gloved hand, holding it out for the girl. She recoils at first, surprised and frightened by the sudden movement, but then takes his hand and stands once more.

The man in rags gently grasps her other hand, the arm with the gunshot, and moves to her side. Her eyes follow him, wide and alert as he bends down and inspects the wound. He lightly brushes away some blood and looks at the exit wound, the sudden pain causing the girl to recoil and bring her arm to her chest. The man in rags steps back and the girl is finally able to see past the goggles to his eyes: one blue and one green.

"Sorry, had to check for an exit wound. It's clean through-and-through, so that's good news at least. I can bandage you up until we get to a doctor."

The girl jumps at the sound of his voice breaking the silence, surprised to hear him speak. His voice is soft and his speech even, as if each word is considered and measured before he speaks. The rags covering his move with his words, giving the eerie impression of an inhuman mouth of rags speaking. He gestures towards the door with his hand, his eyes not leaving the girl's face.

"I have my medical supplies right out in the hallway, if you would like me to patch you up. Can you walk?"

The girl nods numbly, still taken aback by the man in rags and starting to reel as the full weight of what just happened hits her. The man moves to the girls side, sliding his arm under the girl's undamaged arm, holding her up and helping her walk to the hall. She almost collapses as she takes her first step, realizing that her legs were trembling without her knowledge. The man in rags holds her up and leads her out the door.

She sees a dark pile at the end of the hall, a bag and some kind of long object wearing a… hat? The man in rags directs her to it, and she assumes it must be his. As they walk arm and arm down the hall, walking away from the room full of corpses and pain and fear, the girl turns to her rescuer. A thousand things scream through her head: the desire to run and never look back, to go back and stab the stoic man again and again, to break down and cry, to kill the man in rags before he can attack her… but all she can do is open her mouth and, in a small and tired voice ask,

"Who are you?"

The man in rags doesn't look at her, just keeps on walking and holding her up. She can feel his arm tense at the question, though, and wonders why such a simple question would cause that.

"Who I am is unimportant," the man in rags answers, "And I have been called many things. You, though… you may call me Samuel."

**A/N: So there it is, the first installment: I do intent to add more to this... much more, if I can satisfy my brain. Let me know what you think, any mistakes I made, anything I can do better... I'm new to writing fiction and I would really like to improve my writing. Like I said, this is the Courier long after the Battle of Hoover Dam and anything having to do with the Mojave, it might even be better at this point to just think of him as the man in rags- a new individual in the post-apocalyptic land of Fallout. **


End file.
